


It Shouldn't Be This Easy

by frecklesarechocolate



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Rome - Freeform, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 12:19:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frecklesarechocolate/pseuds/frecklesarechocolate





	It Shouldn't Be This Easy

_Inspired by_ _[this](http://deanhugchester.tumblr.com/post/59112592862) _ _and_ _[this](http://images.travelpod.com/users/m.stuart/1.1212860064.rome-sidestreets.jpg) _ _._

Cas takes Dean to Rome.

It’s on the tip of Dean’s tongue to make a joke about the trip being a romantic getaway, but he bites his lip. They actually haven’t gone there yet. There’s been looks, oh, all of those looks. And there’s been hesitant touching, mostly shoulder touches, lingering hands at the small of either his or Cas’s back, but nothing more than that. 

They’ve essentially acknowledged that which is between them in all but words.

Oh, and real touching. They haven’t done any of that yet.

So Dean’s not really sure why Cas has decided to take him to Rome, but here they are, in one of the most romantic cities in the world.

They’re standing at the entrance to a tiny street, cobblestoned and crooked, a short tunnel at one end, and a bustling square behind them. The street’s empty, which is unusual for Rome at this time of day, if the rest of the city is anything to go by.

Cas smiles at him and holds out his hand, an eyebrow raised. Dean slides his hand into Cas’s, and thinks,  _It shouldn’t be this easy. Shouldn’t this be a moment or something?_

But then they’re walking down the street, and there’s too much to see. On one side of the street, a restaurant. A waiter is setting out tables, snapping the white tablecloths loudly before settling them down and plopping a small vase of flowers in the center. The enticing scents of garlic and yeasty bread filters out of the doorway.

On the other side is a flower shop, buckets of brightly colored blooms lighting up the street, reds, blues, yellows and purples all crowding together to create a collage of cheer. Their scents perfume the air as well, blending with the bread from across the way.

From above, sounds emanate from the homes of Romans going about their business. Voices fall from windows like so much water over a waterfall, the foreign cadences washing over them. The brilliant laughter of children at play harmonizes with the other sounds, including the faint, tinkling of a piano from far up above.

They can’t take it all in, not really, so Dean stops craning his neck in all directions, and instead focuses in on his immediate surroundings, on Cas. Cas’s palm is warm in his own, and their upper arms brush together just the merest bit. They walk slowly, no real purpose or direction to it. Cas squeezes Dean’s hand when he wants to point out something, and when Dean looks at Cas, all his friend has to do is tip his head. Dean squeezes back in acknowledgement. 

They amble for hours, letting Rome assault their senses. The city sets out all she has to offer before them, shops, restaurants, sites, history, and they soak it all in like sponges. They barely speak out loud at all, almost never lose contact with each other, not even toward mid-afternoon, when the heat of the day drives nearly everyone from the streets. They settle on the lip of a fountain, resting their feet, and Dean closes his eyes, turning his face toward the sun.

They sit together quietly for a few minutes, sweat beading on their brows and upper lips, when Cas stands, tugging Dean up with him. He speaks for the first time since they’ve arrived. “Come on.”

There’s more purpose and direction to their walking now, Cas slightly ahead of Dean, pulling him along. He turns down one street and then another, drawing them further away from the central, more crowded and touristy parts of the city to a quieter, more residential neighborhood. Finally, he opens the gate to a small house with a riotously overgrown garden in the front and climbs the four steep steps to the front door. He knocks, and the door’s almost immediately thrown wide open.

A large woman with long dark hair and rosy-appled cheeks sees Cas and grins. She embraces him, and then kisses both of Dean’s cheeks, an uninterrupted torrent of Italian flowing from her lips. She steps aside, still talking animatedly, barely even listening to Cas’s replies (which Dean finds totally hot), and ushers them inside. She pulls a key out of the pocket of her floral dress and leads them upstairs. _  
_

She unlocks a door at the top of landing and practically pushes Dean and Cas inside, winking at Cas as she hands him the key. She pulls the door shut with a cheerful, “Buon divertimento!”

Dean looks around the room, and realizes this must be a bed and breakfast. There’s a large bed in the center of the room, piled high with blankets and pillows. It has a wooden frame, carved with intricate swirls and looping decoration. There’s a bay window that looks out onto a large back garden, like the front, overgrown and wild. The room is beautiful, light and airy, despite the heat of the day outside. 

"Cas?" Dean asks after a minute to take in his surroundings.

Cas pulls Dean flush against him and clasps his hands behind Dean’s back, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into a thin strip of skin just above the waistband of his jeans. Dean leans into Cas’s touch, thinking that all the small casual touches before today did not compare to this feeling of being in Cas’s arms. He lowers his head until their foreheads are resting together, noses nuzzling softly.

"Dean," Cas says, just as he always does, so much meaning and feeling thrust behind that one syllable. Their lips meet, gently at first, then more urgently. In this foreign city, they lose themselves in the language of touch, something for which neither of them have ever needed translation.

 


End file.
